


Call Waiting

by wilddragonflying



Series: Post Reichenbach [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Calling, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-28
Updated: 2013-03-28
Packaged: 2017-12-06 17:51:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/738429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wilddragonflying/pseuds/wilddragonflying
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John didn't know why he did it, but he kept Sherlock's phone after the great consulting detective's death. It became a source of comfort to him, whenever the loneliness got to be too much. He never thought, though, that someone besides him would call the dead detective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Call Waiting

**Author's Note:**

> From a picture I saw on tumblr.

John didn’t know why he did it, he really didn’t. After all, it was just a piece of technology. But he kept it. He kept Sherlock’s phone.

 

For the first year, it just sat on his dresser at 221B. Mrs. Hudson let him stay there for the same price he’d paid before, when Sherlock—

 

No. He wasn’t going to go there.

 

Just like he shouldn’t be returning to 221B after every day at work. But he didn’t want to leave. Sherlock would have scoffed at him, but John couldn’t bring himself to care. 221B was home, even without his exasperating colleague. Friend.

 

One particularly busy day at the clinic, John sent a harried text to Sherlock without thinking: _Won’t be home in time for dinner; don’t burn the flat down. –JW_

 

He didn’t realize he’d done so until he got home and went upstairs to change, and the screen on Sherlock’s phone was lit. When he realized what he’d done, John collapsed to the bed, his arms braced on his knees, his head hanging, hands fisted in his hair as he fought to hold back the sobs.

 

After that, he started carrying Sherlock’s phone in his pocket. It was a horrible decision, especially when he’d forget he’d done so, or get caught up in whatever it was he was currently doing, and send a text to Sherlock’s phone and the quick vibrate and ping would remind him that Sherlock wasn’t going to answer, not ever again, and John would have to brace himself against his desk or a wall or his knees to catch his breath, which always seemed to abandon him at each new re-realization.

 

Eventually, though, it stopped hurting so much, and became more of a comfort thing than anything. When John was lonely, or needed to sort something out, he’d text Sherlock, and pretend that the phone vibrating in his coat hanging on its peg would be answered, or that Sherlock would ask him to bring the phone over to wherever Sherlock was currently experimenting.

 

Two and a half years after Sherlock fell, John dialed Sherlock’s number. It had been a particularly bad day; Lestrade had stopped by. John just needed to hear Sherlock’s voice, and the detective’s bored yet impatient voice saying, “Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective. Don’t bother leaving a message if it isn’t pertinent to a case,” felt like coming home.

 

The first time, John didn’t leave a message. But two weeks—and several more such calls—later, he did. It wasn’t anything fancy, just, “Sherlock, it’s John. I… I miss you, so much. I wish you’d come home; I love you.” He didn’t call again, but he did keep texting. Sometimes it was automatic, other times he actually thought about it, about what he would say, how Sherlock would have responded.

 

A little more than three years after Sherlock’s death, John was at Tesco getting some groceries. It was fairly crowded that day, and John was really hoping that he wouldn’t get into yet another row with the machine. Lost in thought, John wandered the aisles for several minutes before he finally realized that his pocket was buzzing. Pulling out his phone, he frowned. It wasn’t displaying a call waiting, or a new text message, yet his coat was…

 

Still buzzing.

 

His breath coming in short bursts, John reached a shaky hand into the pocket that held Sherlock’s phone, the vibrating getting stronger the closer his hand got. He pulled it out and glanced at the screen. He didn’t recognize the number calling, and he frowned. No one but himself had called the number in three years. Probably a wrong number, then. Taking a deep breath, John answered. “Hello?” he asked cautiously.

 

“John, we’re out of—“

 

John didn’t hear the rest of the call, his feet that had once felt as if they were cemented to the ground suddenly developing wings and carrying him out of the store, phone left behind as he raced for 221B.


End file.
